


Captured Moments

by Linorien



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-10 18:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12304752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linorien/pseuds/Linorien
Summary: A trip to the museum turns out to be much more than Q or Eve expected.





	Captured Moments

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Opal for being an amazing beta as always.

 [](https://imgur.com/UOO2wzK)

Q and I climbed out of the taxi, and I stared at the museum before us. Grand towers rose up into the night and wide steps led up to the main doors beneath a wide arch. Looking behind me, I could still see the bright lights of Canary Wharf. “I can’t believe I never knew this place existed!” I exclaimed. “And so close to the city, too. How did you find this?”

“I google searched for things to do on Friday night near London and narrowed my search results to _Things Eve would like_. Good to know my filter works well,” Q replied. “Whoever does the advertising for this late night event did a good job.”

I had to agree. There were forty others arriving and walking into the Museum of Individual History where there were undoubtedly even more people already inside. Q and I joined the small crowd. At the door, our IDs were checked and we were allowed in. I quickly found the bar and steered Q over for a glass of wine. “We’ve both had a long week, it’s my treat. We deserve it.”

We relaxed and enjoyed our drinks in the tiled area before beginning to explore. The museum had arched ceilings that caught the sound of the crowd and bounced it back down to the people below. The main hall seemed to be a small waxwork hall. Nothing like Madame Tussauds but still, the figures were remarkably lifelike.

“Who are these people?” Q asked. “They don’t seem connected at all.” He pointed to the plaques on the marble platforms. “This one created a new fabric for sailboats. This person adopted all the stray cats in her village; I like her. And this one set the Guinness world record for the most cartwheels done in five minutes.”

“Were they all from the same place?” I asked.

Q shook his head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t say.” He pulled out his phone, but without a more time-consuming search, he couldn’t find any records of these people. We walked down the line and still could not find a connection.

Instead, we wandered into one of the side rooms. It was mostly glass cases and a small TV showing a documentary about the late Roman civilisation in London. I excitedly pulled Q over to a stone slab with fairly legible writing and slapped my hand over the sign. “Let's see how good your Latin is.”

“I haven't taken it since Uni,” he protested even as he stepped closer.

“So, two years ago?” I got only an eye roll for that.

“It's an order for swords and shields to be made from a blacksmith. The shop owner wants them ready in three weeks, and they are to be returned along with his slave.”

I lifted my hand. A perfect summary of course. Leaving him, I went to look at the other cases.

There were many such rooms like this that caught my interest. I particularly liked the one about the music of the 70s. The wax figure of a drummer for a local band stood outside the room and inside was a battered drum kit. Sheet music hung from the walls and the tv had what looked to be home video of the band. They weren't as good as the Beatles or the Temptations, but I still found myself humming one of their songs as we put our empty glasses on a small table and proceeded to another room.

“Follow me,” Q said. “This one looked really interesting online.”

The sign on the door read _bricklayers_ and I had my doubts. But then Q worked his magic. The sound of the party faded out as Q explained the mathematical beauty of bricklaying.

“See, look here at this design! It's a perfect tessellation of a larger design but you still only have to create standard brick sizes, which saves money. A clever way to make your estate look nice when you don't really have the money. And this design dates back to the founding of the Byzantine Empire.”

I looked, but that factoid was listed nowhere. I shook my head; I don’t know why I was still surprised at all the things Q knew. When he finally finished giving me a crash course in bricklaying, we returned to the main hall.

It was empty. I looked at my watch. There was still an hour and a half left in the event. But as we looked around, it only became weirder. There were no people, no noise, no sign that the party had happened. The bar was gone, too.

“I don’t have signal,” Q said, staring at his phone in amazement. “I have signal everywhere in London.” He rushed to the windows at the main entrance, pressing his phone against the glass.

I checked my phone. No bars. Sliding it back in my pocket, my eyes caught on an odd sight. Two of the waxwork platforms were empty.

“Eve?” Q’s phone was back in his pocket and he was looking out of the window. I walked over. “Your eyes are better than mine; can you see the city?”

There was only darkness. Where the shining lights of Canary Wharf had been, there was only black. “Perhaps the windows are blacked out,” I suggested. “I didn’t pay attention on the way in.” I moved to the door and pulled.

It didn’t budge. I tried pushing. Nothing. We looked but saw no locking mechanism. My heart raced, blood pulsing near my temple. I narrowed my eyes, focus sharpening, and regulated my breathing automatically. We strained further, trying to push harder, find any weak spot, but nothing changed.

The sound of footsteps made us stop and turn. A young girl in a severe black dress was walking down the stairs. Echoes of her steps bounced around the hall, ringing in the emptiness. Her hair was in a tight braid over her left shoulder. Something about her made me grab the emergency charm on my phone, forgetting that there was no signal.

“I can see the stairs through her,” Q whispered.

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Welcome to my museum.” Her voice carried across the hall effortlessly. “Do come closer.” It was the voice of a young child. A young child with darkness in her eyes.

I looked at Q and saw he was in mission mode. His eyes were darting around, and I thought I could see his mind whirring. He walked forward. “I’ll try to distract her. When you see the chance, look for another way out.”

The air grew colder as we approached. Suddenly, I wished I had not changed into a dress before we came.

“Who are you?” Q asked, his voice sharp.

“I am the caretaker, the artist, and the collector. And you are known as Q.” I realised her feet did not touch the ground.

“You are the curator of this museum?” Q asked. “I compliment you on the diversity. Not many museums have a room dedicated to bricklaying.”

“Thank you.” Her voice echoed more than Q’s did. Like the hall itself wanted to hear her voice.

Q flicked his eyes over to me and I got the hint. “May I ask you about one of your rooms?” he pointed to a room on his side. “It’s this one about Oxford.”

As Q lead the caretaker over to the room, I crept away and dashed around the main staircase, out of view. Following the signs, I found the restrooms. It wasn’t a guarantee, but, yes, there was a small window that was open. Standing up on the counter, I could see out of the window.

I could see the light of the city. And though it was nighttime, the rush of noise was a cacophony compared to the silence within. Careful not to fall, I leaned closer and breathed in the sweet night air. My shoulders relaxed.

Straightening, I pulled out my phone. I had signal! Friday night, the best person to contact would be R. If she wasn’t at headquarters, she would have a text forwarding system in place. I composed a quick message and held my phone out the window. I counted to three. I pulled it back in. Delivered. Yes. Now to rescue Q.

Swiftly but quietly, I returned to the great hall. I couldn't hear Q or the spooky girl. Peering around the grand staircase, I couldn't see them either. I tried calling out for Q.

No answer.

I tried calling louder.

Still, only my singular echo was returned. _Where are you?_

I walked further into the hall and stilled. Where there were two empty platforms, now there was only one. I knew what my eyes saw, but I couldn't believe them.

Rushing closer, I couldn't deny it. The new waxwork was Q. And not just a good likeness. It was him.

My eyes fell on the shining plaque at his feet.

_Corin Alexander Shimea. Famous hacker and inventor. Best known for developing new techniques for encrypting data._

I had only known his middle name. But it was undeniably Q.

I felt a drop in temperature before the curator spoke from just out of my peripheral vision.

“Such a shame about the official secrets act. I would have loved to put his real accomplishments on there. Would you like to know what yours will say?”

“No.”

I ran. I ran as fast as I could, with all the stamina I thought I had, and with all the muscles I had worked so hard to develop in training. Yet a mere human cannot outrun death.

I hadn't even made it two meters before the girl was right in front of me. I had too much momentum; I couldn't stop. I ran right into her.

* * *

Or rather I run her into me. Instantly, my body is no longer mine to control.

My legs slow down and slowly walk my body to stand on the empty platform. My hands thoughtfully smooth my skirt down and fix my hair.

I notice now a roaring silence, more deafening than any I have known. A sound I have always known is gone. I have no heartbeat.

What I can still feel, is ice cold. I feel heavier, too. And everything is growing dark.

My face stretches into a friendly smile, though there is no emotion behind it. Darkness creeps into my vision. My vision is nearly gone.

“I do hope you enjoy your stay.” The collector is a mocking voice in my head. “It will be quite permanent.” And then the spirit leaves my body.

In the darkness, I can hear only the painful silence, the absence of life, and the voice of the girl reading my inscription. “Evelyn Anne Moneypenny. Civil servant. Best known for preventing the assassination of Prince Harry of England during a trip to Wales and her work to further equality in the workplace.”

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like it? Did I catch you by surprise? I hope so.  
> I was experimenting with POV and tenses so if you care to leave a comment and tell me what you thought, I'd love to hear it!


End file.
